


Athrú

by Bootsrcool



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Divergence - A Scandal in Belgravia, FTM Sherlock Holmes, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Pre-Slash, Trans Character, Trans Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-03 20:25:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16332878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bootsrcool/pseuds/Bootsrcool
Summary: Canon divergence of A Scandal in Belgravia. When Mycroft steps on Sherlock's sheet. More is revealed than pale skin and a hint of arse.





	Athrú

**Author's Note:**

> One of many stories I have on the go at different states of completion in the Sherlock Fandom. This one in particular has been on my mind a lot, so here you go!
> 
> Not betaed or britpicked.

“I take the precaution of a good coat and a short friend.” Sherlock ignored the look John shot him before walking up to stand in front of Mycroft. “Mycroft I don't do anonymous clients. I’m used to mystery on one end of my cases, both ends is too much work. Good morning!” The last bit was directed towards the wannabe client mouthpiece. 

 

Sherlock took a step towards the doorway Harry had come through, she et wrapped tightly around him. He managed two more steps before a tug on his sheet unraveled the grip Sherlock had on it, losing it for the briefest of moments.

 

That was all it took.

 

Sherlock grabbed at the sheet a second too late, managing to cover his arse in time, but revealing the thick scar across his hip to the occupants in the room. The detective could hear Mycroft’s sharp inhale, delayed by the shock of his own actions, could feel the burning gazes from John and Harry, could feel the burning behind his eyes as tears threatened to form.

 

“What….”

 

Sherlock clenched his teeth together and ground out, “Who is my client!” He was ashamed to hear his voice crack slightly at the end of the sentence. He started tugging at his sheet again, trying to cover the most important scar on his body. Mycroft numbly lifted his foot, letting the sheet go.

 

“I-”

 

“Look around you, Mister Holmes,” Harry said. “We are in Buckingham palace. Make a deduction. I am told you are rather good at that.”

 

Sherlock stayed silent, as did Mycroft. John cleared his throat.

 

“I will send you the details.” Mycroft said gently, taking a few steps back. Sherlock hiked the sheet over his body once more and stomped over to where his clothes were folded on the table. He snatched them up and left, John hesitating for only a second before following behind.

 

When John got outside, Sherlock was already by the road, arm raised to flag a cab down. John jogged over to catch him before he got in the car that pulled up.

 

“Where are we going?” John asked.

 

“221 Baker Street,” Sherlock said, answering both John and letting the cabbie know where to go.

 

“Sherlock-”

 

“No.”

 

“But-”

 

Sherlock turned his head to look out the window. John studied his reflection; eyes closed, mouth pressed into a thin line. Sherlock's hands were clenched tightly, his nails must have been digging into his palms. John reached up and pressed his hand, heavy onto Sherlock s shoulder. A weight to ground the detective. Sherlock shuddered and pressed back into it for a moment before gathering himself and shrugging John off. The rest of the ride was quiet.

 

*****

 

When they pulled up in front of 221, Sherlock leaped out and went right inside, leaving John to pay the fare. By the time John got upstairs, Sherlock’s bedroom door was shut and there was not a single sound in the flat, bar Johns breathing.

 

John sighed quietly to himself and went over to his laptop. As usual, the battery was dead; Sherlock having neglected to plug it back in after he was through using it. The ex soldier had seen a lot in his career. Different illnesses, cancers and of course, scars of the aftermath of surgeries. John knew his stuff. That wasn't him being egotistical, he knew he was a good doctor, just as he knew he was a good soldier. 

 

But John hasn't been as present in the surgical field besides a conference every few months or years that catches his eye. He needs to fact check his knowledge. It takes his computer only a few minutes to charge enough to be able to use it, long enough for him to put the kettle on and make tea. He makes Sherlock a cuppa, setting it by his chair. He can either nuke it when he gets up or make himself another.

 

It doesn't take John long to pull up a few articles with pictures. Some with a scar on their arm, others on the thigh. Quite a few had a scar very similar to what he saw on Sherlock. John took a pull of air into his lungs, slowly letting in out in a silent, steady gust. 

 

John didn't feel hurt, exactly. He felt….not betrayed. This was a secret that Sherlock had and it wasn't any of Johns business to know. If Sherlock had told him, then it would only have been something else that makes the man he lives with, runs the streets with, would give his life to, himself. It wouldn't have affected their day to day life. At least that's what John thought.

 

He looked very deep into himself, thinking of gut reactions if Sherlock had told him earlier, or if John had found out a different way earlier on. Would he have still moved in with Sherlock?  _ Yes _ . Would he have acted as if Sherlock was someone, something else?  _ No. _ The only thing John could see changing was his admiration for the man. The bravery of the man he has come to see as his best friend. To be able to live how he wanted without a second glance at society. John wished he could be that brave.

 

_ Harry coming out, ‘I’m gay.’ Their father screaming, ‘I didn't raise a fag!’ Mum crying, face in her hands and John watching it all, standing by the door as his big sister let herself be free from hiding away. His attempts at standing by her side swept away in the violent storm that was their father. John wishing he had the courage to walk over and stand next to her and say, ‘I’m bi.” _

 

Yes. John would have admired that Sherlock could go and get a sex reassignment, a step many transgender people don't take. Not that John thought less or more of them. It was their body, they could go as far as they wanted and felt comfortable going. John thought that anyone who came out as who they are, are courageous. Unlike himself.

 

He sighed again and stood up, not bothering to clear his browsing history. If Sherlock wanted to know what he was looking up, he would find it. John chugged his cooling tea and picked up Sherlock's cup, walking over to the detective’s door.

 

“Sherlock?” John called, knocking lightly. “I’m going out for a walk. I’ll be back soon. Please come out and eat a few biscuits? I’ll put your tea in the microwave. Might need to heat it up.” John paused a second, listening to the sound of rustling cloth before it went silent. John pressed his head into the cool wood of the door and took a step back, placing the promised tea in the microwave after making sure there wasn't any experiments in progress and setting his empty cup in the sink. He grabbed his jacket and left the flat, deciding to take a walk around Regents park while the weather was holding up.

 

*****

 

When John got back a little over an hour later, Sherlock was splayed out on the couch in his pajama bottoms and an old shirt. His robe was wrapped around him as if it was his sheet. His eyes were closed and his breathing was steady, but not the deep breathing that occurred when he was sleeping. So, Mind Palace.

 

John stepped inside, hanging his coat up and checking the kitchen. Sherlock’s cup of tea was missing from the microwave and there was a plate with crumbs on it in the sink. At least he had something to eat, John thought, thinking of the skinny man that was his best friend. When that sheet slipped, John could practically count every vertebrae and rib along his back. 

 

John walked over to the couch and sat on the floor, his shoulders brushing against one of Sherlock’s arms. John sighed for what felt like the thousandth time that day and reached a hand up to take his flatmates pulse. Fast, but not enough to become suspicious. John left his hand there for a moment before pivoting so he was facing the detective. John lightly trailed his hand from the pulse point in Sherlock’s wrist to the one in his neck, resting his hand there for a moment before skimming down the lean chest, passed other scars that John knew of, some that he personally stitched up and viewed the healing of. A shallow stab wound here, some road rash there, other smaller cuts and nasty looking bruises splattered over this torso. His hand drifted over to Sherlock’s hip where John knows the recently revealed scar is, hidden beneath clothing.

 

The body under his hand shuddered very slightly and John looked up to Sherlock’s face to discover a few tears running over sharp cheekbones and soft looking skin, unblemished but for some faint smile lines. That mouth wasn't smiling now though.

 

“I’m fine,” he croaked out, voice hoarse from either disuse or emotions.

 

“I know,” John replied, thumb brushing over one last time where the sex reassignment scar rests before pulling back and up to Sherlock’s face, wiping the tears away.

 

“I’m still me,” Sherlock whispered.

 

“Yes,” John agreed. “Nothing needs to change if you don't want it to.”

 

Sherlock sighed and leaned into Johns hand, the bloggers other coming up to rest on the other side of Sherlock’s face, fingers just brushing along his hairline.

 

“I don't want anything to change.” Sherlock affirmed.

 

“Then nothing will.”

 

John slid his hands behind Sherlock and pulled him into a brief hug, giving his shoulder a slight pat, as he would do with any of his mates before pulling back and standing up, wincing at the stiffness in his knees. He patted Sherlock’s leg, signally to get up.

 

“Let’s order in some Thai food and see about that case now, shall we?”

 

Sherlock only nodded, a small smile on his face as he looked up at John.

 

Nothing changed. Sherlock couldn't be happier.

 

*****

 

Except that he could. Be happier that is.

 

John and Sherlock were just finishing up their food, Sherlock having eaten almost all of his food which had John doing his ‘I’m happy, my starved flatmate and best friend ate his food’ look. John was washing up the dishes when a familiar thumping sounded, making its way upstairs.

 

Sherlock usually would have groaned dramatically and made a beeline for his violin and he did groan, just not as he would normally do it. He also didn't go for his violin, staying seated in the kitchen with John. John then remembered that Mycroft had outed Sherlock to, not only his partner in crime, but essentially the heart of England herself.

 

John couldn't stop the anger washing over his face and dried his hands as Mycroft stepped into the room, umbrella hanging off his wrist.

 

“Sherlock, Dr. Watson.”

 

Sherlock didn't say a word and John glared daggers at the older man. “What are you doing here?”

 

Mycroft shifted slightly. “I came over to drop off the case file and...I brought along a few other cold cases from MI6, if Sherlock is feeling bored or charitable.”

 

“Lovely. Why don't you leave them on the table and go fuck off.”

 

“John,” Sherlock said. His eyes haven't left his older brother since he entered his sight. “why don't you go get some more tea and milk? I'm sure we need some, or will eventually.”

 

John opened his mouth to protest but closed it at the look in Sherlock's eyes. “Right. Yeah, okay. I’ll be back soon.” The shorter man shot Mycroft one last warning look that screamed ‘If you hurt him I’ll break you.’ before throwing his jacket on and leaving the flat once more.

 

After the door closed, silence fell over 221B, both Holmes brothers staring at each other to see who would look away first. After a few moments, Mycroft’s eyes slid away.

 

“I am truly, deeply sorry, Sherlock.”

 

“You should be,” Sherlock retorted.

 

“I am,” Mycroft repeated. “I never should have let the thought even cross my mind, let alone do the action itself.”

 

Sherlock stayed quiet. The relationship between the Holmes brothers has been tense for years now, John's presence in their lives improving it. But there are always events that may have been forgiven, but could never be forgotten.

 

Sherlock can't keep but think back, when he left home and took to the streets. Mycroft's disgust at Sherlock's source of income, saving up for the surgeries he needed. No one was going to help him then and the way Mycroft looked at him when he found him, the words he spoke, Sherlock could never forget that.

 

Mycroft could tell what his little brother was thinking of and sat down in the kitchen chair across from Sherlock heavily. “Sherlock.”

 

“It's fine. All in the past-”

 

“I am sorry.”

 

Sherlock looked up and almost recoiled in surprise at the expression on his older brothers face. The regret was palpable. His eyes, blue but not the piercing kind that Sherlock had, looked to be almost wet, a sheen of tears hiding. Sherlock can't remember ever seeing Mycroft look at him like that before.

 

“I am so, incredibly sorry, Sherlock.”

 

Mycroft bowed his head, Shame radiating off of him. Missed opportunities for being on a more familiar basis with his only sibling, gone because of his reaction to leaning his sister was trying to become his brother.

 

Silence laid heavily over the flat. Mrs Hudson was over with Mrs. Turner, probably going over John's blog, as they do. The sounds of London life out on the streets were muffled with how deep in the flat they were. The only sound heard was the breathing of the two most observant people in the country, if not the continent. Then, Sherlock's chair legs screeching across the linoleum floors as he stood up abruptly. He strode around the table and pressed his thin, boney hands into his brothers shoulders, softly at first, so softly as they were barely felt though Mycroft's clothes. Then the pressure became stronger, more grounding as John sometimes did for Sherlock.

 

“I forgive you,” Sherlock said, quietly but resolutely. “for the things you said, how you reacted. I forgive you,” he repeated.

 

In that moment, with the sincerity hanging in those words,  Mycroft couldn't help but break a little. At the same time, something was fixed. As the man known as The Iceman shook with silent sobs, something previously broken was mended. It wasn't perfect, but there is always room for improvement.

 

*****

 

When John came back home, Sherlock was standing by the fireplace, violin out and a chippy tune being teased out of it. John couldn't help but lean against the doorframe and watch his detective play, eyes closed and a slight smile playing on his lips.

 

When the music came to an end, Sherlock let the arm holding the bow drop, violin still tucked under his chin, John clapped a bit in applaud. “Good chat then? I don't need to go and break his jaw?”

 

Sherlock sorted. “As if he would let you get in punching distance.”

 

John's lips twitched. “Oh, I think I could've managed.”

 

Sherlock opened his eyes and smiled at his blogger before closing them once more and lifting the bow.

**Author's Note:**

> Come fangirl/boy and scream with me at Bootsrcool.tumblr.com.


End file.
